


Ain't It Crazy

by gertie_flirty



Category: Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gertie_flirty/pseuds/gertie_flirty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Write for Relief fic for the fabulous courtney_beth. Based on a prompt that read: “Americone Dream and Cherry Garcia are in their mid-twenties and couldn't be more different. Americone is your typical advertising, suit-wearing guy, while Cherry is a free spirit who doesn't like to be tied down. When they meet, it's like a force of nature - they don't like each other at first, but grow to love one another.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't It Crazy

~~x.~~x.

 

He’s broke.

Completely and totally broke. Internships, even those at prosperous ad agencies, don’t pay much and he’s finally reached the bottom of his savings account. He can’t pay rent, and needs a roommate.

The ad goes up on craigslist. There are respondents whom he interviews thoroughly, and some seem promising. After he gives them a welcoming speech outlining his rules for living, they all seem to disappear and never call him back.

Which is why when Cherry Garcia shows up, in her flowy shirt and red-streaked hair, calling him “man” and “dude” and “brother,” the only question he asks is whether she has enough money for a security deposit.

She writes him a check on the spot.

He grudgingly admits he likes the fact that she still uses checks even though the rest of the world has moved on to debit cards and internet transfers. And honestly, he’s a bit relieved she doesn’t pay with a giant wad of cash. Despite her appearance, he starts to believe she’s not a drug dealer.

~x.~x.~x.

Cherry can’t believe there’s a guy like this left in the world. He’s, like, totally square and a major buzzkill. He combs his black hair meticulously everyday, and has these little wire-frame glasses that have been out of fashion for years. And he’s an ad-man, designing all those horrible billboards she sees across the city. She’s also learned his life is nothing like Mad Men, except that he wears Brooks Brothers suits every day. No wonder he’s broke; he spends all of his money on monkey suits.

But, dang, is the apartment nice. And she’ll have her own room to sleep in for a few weeks until the band she follows goes back on tour. All of her stuff can finally be moved out of storage and into a real place.

The first thing they agree on is that the temperature in the apartment is to be kept low, almost freezing. They say it in unison; any hotter and they’ll melt.

~x.~x.~x.

 

The place is a mess, and Americone is getting tired of it. Everything Cherry touches is sticky and her tie-dye shirts get mixed in with his laundry and he has rainbow underwear. He comes home one day and she’s on the couch with one of her hippie friends, some guy she calls Phish Food, and the whole place stinks to high heaven.

“Have you been—were you smoking pot?”

Cherry gives him a severe glare that she manages to hold for a total of five seconds before exploding into giggles.

“Hey, man, it’s no biggie—“ Phish, with his scraggly hair and ill-fitting clothes, stands up and puts out a hand in greeting.

“It is a biggie, and I am not your man! If the landlord came up here and smelled this, we’d be kicked out on the street!” Americone is about to throw his briefcase at the other man, until Cherry steps between them.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down. Next time we’ll just make brownies or something,” she says. She puts one hand on his arm and forces him to lower it, but he’s still fuming.

“I thought you were leaving today,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Ah, the band cancelled their tour. The lead singer slept with the drummer’s wife.”

“Great, just great,” he grumbles, and marches into his bedroom and slams the door.

“Whoa, man. Overreact much?” Phish asks, ready to take his seat again.

“Dude, you have to leave,” Cherry says in a stern voice.

“What? Seriously?’

“Seriously. Go.”

With a lot of shrugging, eye-rolling, and more than one mumbled “whatever,” Phish Food somehow manages to shuffle out the door.

Cherry turns around to look at the kitchen, and sighs.

~x.~x.~x.~x.~x.

Americone wakes up early the next morning, like he always does. This time, though, something’s different.

Cherry’s in the kitchen, her hair tied back with a paisley scarf, giant rubber dish-gloves on, with a sponge in her hand. The whole room looks pretty spotless already, but she’s still on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. He can’t help but notice her cutoff jean shorts, and how the lower half of her body looks in them.

“Cherry?”

“Oh, hey.” She turns around, smiling. She stands up and drops the sponge in the bucket of soapy water on the counter. “You like?”

“You really cleaned up, huh?”

“Yeah, man. I’m used to being out on the road, so I just kinda let things go. Sorry about that.”

He sits down at the kitchen table, running his fingers across the surface. Not sticky in the slightest. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where do you get your money?”

“What’re are you talking about?”

“To pay rent. To go traipsing across North America after some old guys who were famous thirty years ago.”

“Oh, from my dads.”

“Dadssss?” He draws out the ‘s’ in surprise.

“Yeah, I have two dads,” she laughs at seeing him so flabbergasted.

“Where on earth are you from?”

“Vermont, dude. How about you? Where are you from?” She mocks his serious tone as she sits across from him.

“South Carolina.”

“Whoa-oh, I knew you seemed like a good-ol’ boy. How old are you?” These are all questions they should’ve asked each other long ago, and had no reason to just be getting around to it now.

“Twenty-four.”

“Awesome! Me too!” She grins and pulls up the strap on her tank top that has started to slip down her shoulder.

Cripes. She’s not even wearing a bra.

He clears his throat and looks away pointedly. “Well, I’m going to make some coffee and get ready for work. Do you want any?”

“No way, dude. Too much caffeine, and like, I spaz out.”

He doesn’t say anything, but can’t help the corner of his mouth from turning up at the thought of super-laid back Cherry Garcia ‘spazzing out.’

“Twenty-four, huh?”

“What?” he asks, pouring water into the Keurig.

“Twenty-four and no girlfriend?”

He almost drops the cup he was using. “What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Just the way you reacted to me talking about my dads, I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend. Maybe I’m wrong?”

“No! I mean, you’re not wrong. I just haven’t had a girlfriend since—“

“Since?”

“Charlene.” This is all he says, but he swallows deeply.

“Sorry, bro. Didn’t mean to offend.”

“It’s fine,” he mutters, picking out a tiny plastic container of coffee to stick in the machine. “It was a long time ago.”

She leans her head on one hand and blows a raspberry.

 

~x.~x.~x.~x.

 

The first time she kisses him, it’s to shut him up.

He talks a lot. Like, all the time. He holds opinions on everything, and he’s so pompous. So very, very pompous. Sometimes his opinions are so over-the-top she wonders if he’s not actually some weird self-parody designed solely to get a reaction out of her. His leaps of logic are crazy, and they very often end in some sort of trap that frustrates her and makes her laugh at the same time. She’s never argued with anyone so much in her life.

Here he is, standing in the middle of the kitchen, cooking dinner (which for him is nothing more complicated than spaghetti) arguing vehemently for a flat tax rate. She doesn’t care, she really doesn’t care, but he just keeps talking and talking and talking, and maybe it was that brownie she ate earlier, but at one point she just whirls him around, grabs him by the tie, and kisses him.

He stands there, shocked, his mouth hanging wide open.

“Dude,” she says. “Shut up.”

She walks away, and he tries to straighten his glasses. After a moment of flabbergasted silence, he continues, “You wouldn’t be able to silence the voice of the American people so easily, Cherry, and I won’t fall for it either.”

She throws her hands up in the air and collapses onto the couch.

 

~x.~x.~x.

 

The second time, he kisses her.

It’s fall and she is delighted to discover he loves rock music. He calls the tenth month of the year “Rocktober” without a trace of irony.

She comes home from a day of selling jewelry at the flea market, and he’s strumming on her 1957 Gibson Les Paul like it’s no big deal. The amp’s not hooked up to it, but there’s music playing on the stereo—sounds like the Stones.

“Oh, hello,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I hope you don’t mind me playing it, you left it out.”

“It’s cool, bro,” she flops onto the couch, throwing her keys onto the coffee table. “It’s nice to see you let your freak flag fly.”

“The only flag I fly is the American one,” he says, in a deadly serious tone.

Then Cherry does the thing that she doesn’t know he finds adorable, the thing where she tries to hold back her laughter but it explodes through her pressed together lips with a tiny snort. Once she lets it out, her laugh is full and bright, and he doesn’t know he is staring at her until she stops and asks, “What?”  
This is when he leans over and kisses her.

She has to admit, it’s pretty cool. A guy leaning over a guitar to kiss her while strumming a ballad—wow. “Time Is On My Side” by the Rolling Stones totally counts as a ballad, right?

Either way, she kisses him back.

~x.~x.~x.~x.

Their relationship is weird. She’s okay with weird; he’s not. He has goals and ambitions and plans. This dude could take over the world. She just wants to unite it.

The sex is awesome, thank you very much, and they do it all the time. He comes home from work one day and she’s wearing nothing but an American flag. He’s mad that she would desecrate a symbol of his country in such a manner, but also he is incredibly turned on.

And things go on like this. Arguments at any time of the day or night, and sex is just as frequent. Sometimes, though, the moments he lives for, are the ones early in the morning before she’s gone to bed and when he’s getting ready for work. They watch an episode of Saved By the Bell and laugh at all the terrible jokes and have in-depth character discussions about Mr. Belding and his troubled personal life. They wonder how long Mr. Tuttle and Belding have been friends, since they call each other by their first names, sometimes.

She’s the only person he’s ever met that also liked the Miss Bliss episodes.

He’ll sit next to her in bed, dressed for work, shoes not yet on, and hold her hand. He runs his thumb gently over each of her knuckles in turn. She’s missing the first two-thirds of the middle finger of her right hand. No explanation is given besides, “Wood-chopping accident.” Once, she does lament that it makes flipping him off highly ineffective, especially when she forgets to use her left hand.

And this is how it is, for a long time.

Until one day, they have a fight to end all fights, and she collapses in tears on the living room floor. She’s sobbing and cries, “You’re so sweet, sometimes, but you’re full of all these little crunchy bits. But even the crunchy bits are covered in something good, li—like chocolate, and I just don’t know if I like you or not. I just don’t know.”

He can’t stand seeing her cry, so he leaves.

~x.~x.~x.~x.

He doesn’t get far. As soon as he shuts the front door, his neighbor from across the hall is there.

“Problem, buddy?”

Americone frowns. Latenight Snack is kind of a douche. He’s smug and does terrible impressions and seems unable to keep a straight face whenever he’s telling a joke.

“No problem.”

Latenight shifts the bag of garbage he’s carrying to his other hand. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Just roommate problems, okay?”

“What? How could anyone have problems with Cherry? That girl is hot,” Latenight says, twirling the bag around. “At least you don’t have to live with Chunky Monkey. That guy is a terror.”

Americone purses his lips to the side and harrumphs.

Latenight laughs. “Come on, I’ll grab my coat and buy you a drink.”

“I don’t need your charity. In fact, I don’t believe in charity, I think that it’s a waste of--“

“Dude, nobody cares,” Latenight sighs good-naturedly. “Just hold on a sec, okay?’

For some reason, Americone does.

~x.~x.~x.~x.

They get disgustingly drunk at the bar. Well, Americone does anyway. Heartbreak increases your alcohol tolerance by forty-five percent.

“And, and, everything’s just so—sticky!” Americone cries, slamming his mug back down on the bar.

“Dude, that’s gross,” Latenight chuckles and claps him on the back. “Come on, I think you’ve had enough.”

“No, that’s the problem! I haven’t,” Americone replies over the clamor of the crowded bar. “I haven’t had enough.”

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” Latenight puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him out onto the street. “You’re gonna go up there, drink a bunch of water, pass out, wake up, and apologize to your girlfriend. Do not, I repeat, do not, apologize until you sober up. Got that?”

“But I really just feel like singing ‘Walking in Memphis’ instead,” Americone breaks free of Latenight’s grasp and begins crooning, “Put on my blue suede shoes, and boarded the plane, touched down in the land of the Delta blues, in the middle of the pourin’ raaaaaain . . .”

“You got a nice singing voice, there, buddy, but we’re in public.”

“Don’t ever grow up, man, life is hard.”

“I’m only four years younger than you.”

“Bah!” Americone brushes some dirt off of his jacket. “Four years is a damn lifetime.”

“For four-year-olds!” Latenight grabs onto the other man and pulls him to the door of the apartment building. “Come on, do you remember what I said?”

“Yeah, yeah, drink water, sleep, blah blah blah,” Americone waves his hand back and forth.

“Close enough.” Latenight somehow manages to drag Americone up three flights of stairs and into his apartment. “Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay buddy?”

“Okay, buuuddddy,” Americone says in a mocking voice, giving him a careless wave. Once Latenight is gone, Americone shuffles over to the kitchen and resumes singing, “She said, ‘Tell me are you a Christian child?’ and I said, ‘Ma’am I am tonight!’ Well, I was walkin’ in Memphis,” with this, he throws his hands up in the style of gospel choir and repeats in a high-pitched voice, “Wal-kin’ in Memphis, walking with my feet ten feet off the—the—“

“Ten feet off of Beale,” Cherry interjects. She’s standing there in a tank-top and panties, her hair falling in those crazy loose waves over her shoulders.

“Oh, h-hey,” Americone squeaks out. “What’s going on?”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. Yes. Of course. Ovariously. Obviately. Obliviate. That’s from Harry Potter.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. Right. Listen,” Americone leans on the counter desperately, like a drowning man clinging to a log. “Latenight told me I’m not supposed to talk to you till tomorrow.”

“Latenight Snack? You hate that guy.”

“He’s not so bad,” America replies, feeling himself slipping. He manages to catch himself at the last second.

“I’m assuming he’s the one who paid for all your drinks.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, it’s cool, he’s a cool guy.”

“I don’t care if you get drunk. I’m happy for you actually.”

“Happy? I thought you were mad at me.”

“I wasn’t mad. Just—just I don’t know. Feelings are hard.”

“Agreed.”

She doesn’t say anything, just opens the refrigerator door and looks inside awkwardly.

“Cherry,” he says, then gulps. “Sometimes—sometimes I feel like you’re too much.”

She turns around, staring at him with huge brown eyes. “What?”

“You’re just too much to take in at one time. If I take all of you at once, I’ll feel fat and bloated and overindulged. It’s like I just want to use up part of you now and save the rest for later. You’re too much, Cherry. Too much of a good thing. It can be bad for you.”

“So what are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know, Cherry. I don’t know. I just feel like this is a really sticky situation.”

A silence falls, but it doesn’t last long.

Cherry’s the first to break; her laughter spills out of her in a bubbly stream. His awkward drunk guffaws aren’t far behind. He suddenly grabs her, and pulls her in close, whispering in her ear, “Just don’t leave me, okay? Just don’t leave me.”

She stands on her tiptoes and whispers back, “Okay.”

She puts her arms around her and they hug. It’s a weird hug. She’s okay with weird.

So is he.

~x.~x.~x.~x.~x.~x.

The End

~x.~x.~x.~x.~x.~x.~x.

**Author's Note:**

> Um. I don’t know. Late Night Snack is Jimmy Fallon’s new ice cream, so that’s where that came from. Cherry obviously shares a lot of history (and a guitar) with Jerry Garcia. And the title is from a Grateful Dead song that’s also known as “The Rub.” Listen to it, it’s mind-blowing.


End file.
